


but our hearts won't lie

by tosca1390



Category: Psy-Changeling - Nalini Singh
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments in private and amidst the Pack when she meets his cat-eye gaze and sees the panther in him reaching towards her, towards her shuttered thoughts. How she will broach the delicacies of their emotions, she does not know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but our hearts won't lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts), [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts), [katayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katayla/gifts), [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



> For Jordan, Grace, Jess, and Katie. I am a monster of your creation. Post-Book One.

*

The revelation of the Web of Stars, and her continued survival, is first a blinding joy. Sascha has been given the gift of time, of a full life with Lucas and in the Pack. She can’t contain her pleasure, goes around DarkRiver territory with an uncontrollable smile for days. The sentinels don’t know what to do with her, but they grin back and touch her cheek, her hand. Lucas is insufferably pleased, as if it was his idea all along. 

“And _you_ didn’t want to me save you,” he chides over and over, his mouth on hers, his hand on her neck. 

Sascha lets him, because she is too grateful for the chance to truly live that she can’t argue. To move forward, however, is another story altogether. 

There are tendrils of unanswered questions running through her, questions she knows she should have answers to, or at least divine in some sense. How, she wonders sometimes in the deep forest darkness of night, how did this come to be? She loves Lucas, to be sure; but there is a part of her, the logical Psy-minded remainder of her past life, that wonders what exactly it means to be in love. This is her first experience (and her last, it seems); is it the same for Lucas?

She cannot ask these questions, not of him, not yet. But she knows he feels the query of her soul in his. There are moments in private and amidst the Pack when she meets his cat-eye gaze and sees the panther in him reaching towards her, towards her shuttered thoughts. How she will broach the delicacies of their emotions, she does not know. 

*

“So clinical,” Tammy murmurs, not glancing up from the papers in front of her. 

Sascha hides a smile, sitting across from the older woman. Tammy’s kitchen is a comfort, as always; warm sunlight shifts across the counters and floor, edging her booted feet. The cubs are at school, or else Sascha wouldn’t get a moment alone with their mother. She is a magnet for them, in a way she still doesn’t understand; but their young minds soothe her, as she is early in her embrace of her empathetic abilities. They are all joy and innocence, and she lets their energies settle her, bring her to a state of normalcy. “They are medical records. Aren’t they supposed to be clinical?”

Tammy’s mouth twists at the corners. “There’s clinical, and then there’s Psy.”

“True,” Sascha murmurs, tapping her fingers against the wood of the table. Her hot chocolate, half-drunk, cools next to her. 

The records are the last delivery in what was left in Sascha’s apartment in the city. Lucas had wanted to leave it all, start over completely fresh, but Sascha demurred. It was important to know what the M-Psy had thought of her; besides, Tammy wanted a complete medical history, as she had on all the Pack members. It was only right. So, between the legal documents and the medical records, the remains of Sascha’s entire life sit in boxes in the aerie or under Tammy’s hands. She has been erased from the mainframe of the Net (an act that comes with legal disinheritance) and now lives only in physicality, in paper and ink. At least until Tammy adds her records to her electronic database. 

“You held you shields impeccably in the Net,” Tammy says at last, breaking the gentle quiet between them. “There is no record of a break in your Silence.”

Sascha cups her mug between her palms, shoulders rising in a delicate shrug. “To do so would have been death,” she says, as simple as that. “And I had no plans for that.”

Tammy smiles. “No. You had to find us.”

The certainty and surety of her words cut Sascha to the quick. “How did you know?” she blurts out, color flushing her cheeks. 

“Know what?”

“About Nathan.”

Tammy’s gaze shifts, a sad sort of smile touching her gentle mouth. “I was fifteen. He stopped by my house to wish me a happy birthday, and when I opened the door – it was the strangest sensation. I’d seen him so many times before, but this one time – it was different. Right.”

Frowning slightly, Sascha sips her cocoa. “So it was all because of the mating bond?”

“Oh, no,” Tammy says, hand fluttering in the sun-speckled air. “I was in love with him for years beforehand. I always knew it was more than a young girl’s crush, but the mating bond settled that for me.”

“Was it the same for him?” Sascha asks, partially embarrassed by the personal nature of her queries. But there is something unsettled in her, something the bond with Lucas cannot wholly answer. 

“It took us a while to get there, but yes. There was love already; the mating bond merely solidified it for us,” Tammy says, peering at Sascha curiously. “Why all these questions, darling?”

Opening her mouth to speak, Sascha finds herself wordless. There is no delicate way to ask the Pack’s Healer if Lucas loves her, mating bond aside. There was really no way to ask that question of anyone. “I find myself trying to understand how the different layers of emotion work together,” she says instead. 

Humming softly, Tammy rises and moves to the kitchen counter. “The complexities of emotion stump the best of us,” she says, bringing a plate of sugar cookies to the table. Sascha takes one gladly as Tammy sits with the paperwork once more. “You’re a novice to it all, really and truly.”

“I don’t know that I’m allowed to be so,” Sascha points out. The forest is full and alive outside the house walls, birds and small animals chirping and calling to each other through the trees. She feels settled by nature, by the constant surroundings of life and growth. “My abilities require a fast education.”

“There is no such thing,” Tammy laughs, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ears. “Not in this.”

Nibbling on a cookie, Sascha lapses back into silence as Tammy turns her attention back to the files in front of her. She wants to trust, to fall in so deeply she’ll never come out; but the shielding, locked in after years and years of self-salvation, is hard to pick apart. The mating bond is there, sure and certain; she feels Lucas in her bones. What the layers are beyond that, she cannot fathom or define. Today, a sunny afternoon in the kitchen of a now-dear friend, she is glad for the here and now. 

A lazy pulse follows the line of the bond. She colors as if Lucas is in the room, his hand on her hair. He is coming home. 

“I know that look,” Tammy says with a laugh, jarring Sascha from her thoughts. 

“I believe Lucas is on his way back to the aerie,” Sascha says primly, the smile impossible to peel from her mouth. 

Tammy raises her eyebrows, smiling playfully. “You got it bad, honey.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand what that means,” Sascha replies, taken aback. 

“It means you love that man so much, it’s written all over your face.”

Touching her cheek, Sascha grows warm with a blush. “I – “

“You don’t have to know what it means,” Tammy says, suddenly very quiet. Her gaze fixes on Sascha, as if reading her very insides. “But you feel it. Don’t you?”

The bond pulses again, warm and wanting. Sascha’s middle clenches, a mixture of sweetness and worry rising in her throat. “I don’t understand it. And I don’t – does he – “

“Oh,” Tammy says, all wonder. “Oh, he’s an idiot.”

“I don’t think so,” Sascha says stubbornly, the instinct to defend and protect rising swiftly. 

“In this, yes,” Tammy says with a sad little laugh. “He very much is.”

An edge of desperation cuts into Sascha’s tone. “Please, don’t say –“

“This is in all confidence,” Tammy interrupts, waving her hands. “Though if you two start acting like idiots again, I take no responsibility for my actions.” Her gaze drifts over the paperwork. A little breath catches in her throat. “Oh, hon. Next week is your birthday.”

Sascha blinks, finishing the cool cup of cocoa. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks. 

Tammy looks at her, brows arched sharply. “Your birthday?”

Brow furrowing as she sinks into thought, Sascha latches on a dormant slip of information, a cultural imperative still unfamiliar to her. “A celebration of someone’s birth and life. Yes?” 

“Yes, of course,” Tammy says, shaking her head. “Have you – “

“Psy do not celebrate individual achievement, especially for something as simple as continuing one’s existence,” Sascha says, voice clipped. “I do not ever remember having any sort of special event.”

What Sascha doesn’t say, but thinks with a certain amount of sadness and regret, is that Nikita Duncan would never deign to participate in something so base, so defined in emotion. Birthdays and the festivities associated are a particularly human and changeling cultural imperative; there was no room for it in the cage of Silence. The things she never knew she missed, she thinks as Tammy stares at her in a mix of pity and outrage. 

“We like birthdays,” is all Tammy says, mouth drawn tight. 

“I’m sure I will learn to celebrate all of the Pack’s appropriately,” Sascha says. Her spine straightens as she feels more than hears Lucas approach. The car is still a ways away, but she can sense his anticipation, the cat close to the skin. _Home_ ripples through her. She smiles too softly for words. 

“Just gone for him,” Tammy murmurs, a light laugh lingering in the air between them. 

Sascha lets the words flow over her, lets Tammy’s soothing energy settle and even out her own. She rises without thought, touching her fingers to Tammy’s in goodbye before she moves out of the kitchen and through the house to the front porch. Lucas pulls up as she steps into the fresh air, the sun-dappled afternoon. Branches arch high over her as she steps off the porch. 

“How’s your health, kitten?” Lucas calls as he slides out of the driver’s seat, all feline grace and lithe charm. 

“Emotionally stunted,” she calls back, teasing. There is truth in it, but her voice is light. 

He grins wickedly, close enough to take her in his arms. “As long as that’s all,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her. He is all touch and sensation, hands warm as he cups her face, keeps her close. Mouth opening under his, she shuts her eyes and breathes him in, the sharp woodsy scent of him and his cat. 

“I have to talk to Tammy for a minute. You mind waiting?” he asks against her lips, the skin of his throat warm to her questing touch. 

She shakes her head. He passes a hand over her braid, the line of her spine, before stepping lightly onto the front porch and striding into the healer’s home. Sascha moves to the car, leaning on the still-warm hood as she tips her head up to the sunshine. There is warmth everywhere, enveloping her inside and out; she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, even the ice-cold certainties of the Net. 

When Lucas comes back out, she wastes no time with words. She kisses him, lets his hands slide over her back, the nape of her neck. She wants the sensation of possession; it is the only time when she isn’t haunted by questions, by the emotional inquiries she still cannot field on her own. He presses on the bond, asking in the vaguest of terms. Here she feels the sharp relief of his past and his future as he feels them, and it burns in her chest, an acrid ache. His mouth soothes; the physical trumps the emotional, for now. 

*

Two nights later, Sascha wakes with a start. There is a sharply bitter taste in her mouth. Her heart beats too fast in her chest, and there is such distress reaching through every inch of her that she can barely breathe. A light sheen of sweat sticks to her bare skin. 

“Oh,” she exhales into the thick darkness of the bedroom, the forest hunting-quiet around the aerie. She reaches to the other side of the bed, and only finds empty space, the sheets still warm. When she stretches out her hands, they tremble in the air. 

_A nightmare_ , she thinks. _I was having a nightmare_. But she cannot remember the line of visions, or the true reason for her fear. Not a nightmare, then, but a residual emotional effect from someone else’s. 

_Lucas_. 

Naked, she slips from bed and reaches with shaking hands for the shirt neglected hours past, with Lucas’s hands on her skin and his mouth between her thighs. The fear grips her so deeply, has her so handily in control, that she pushes her hands to her stomach and breathes hard, trying to dispel the nausea roiling there. She has been testing the boundaries of her empathy slowly, with visits from the sentinels and Tammy. But to go out into public is still too much pressure on her developing skills. Lucas is a constant press, all the control he exhibits on the surface merely a mask for the raw strands of emotion skimming within him and the cat inside. Tonight, he is the source for this secondary strain, a drag on her shields. 

_Baptized in blood_ echoes in circles, a drumbeat in her pulse. 

Another pulse of anxiety and stress strains her frayed nerves; Sascha ducks into the bathroom and splashes cool water on her face, sips a little from her cupped palms. This is how it’s supposed to be, she tells herself over and over. An alpha’s mate is meant to carry the burdens with them, to shoulder what the alpha cannot (or does not know they cannot). Lucas is never her alpha, always her partner. Tammy had explained this in depth for Sascha, weeks ago when the bond was too fresh to touch. 

Empaths have never been a part of the equation, however. 

“Shit,” Sascha grits out, the rare curse raw on her tongue. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her cardinal eyes stare back, night-black with a few pinpricks of light. It’s taking an immense amount of her psychic energy to keep herself upright under the pressure of Lucas’s emotions, but she will never close herself off. She could never do that to him, not after what he’s done for her. 

When she pads out of the bathroom, touching cool fingers to her temples, he is waiting outside. It is the panther that sits in wait for her, eyes jade-bright in the dim hallway. She stops, hands falling to her side. His animal form is still something of a stranger to her. 

“I was looking for you,” she says, feigning ease. 

The cat’s gaze narrows. She sighs and plants her hands on her hips, staring him down and feeling slightly ridiculous. “I’m not going to talk to you like this,” she says, a little crossly. 

He gives her a look that seems to say _then we won’t be talking at all_ , in that stubborn way of his, and turns to pad out to the porch of the aerie. With him in cat form, the stress on her senses lessens; she feels the nausea retreat inch by inch, though her mouth is still tart with the acrid remains of his nightmares. Wetting her lips, she slowly follows him outside, into the crisp night air. Enveloped by trees, she feels as if they might be the only two people here on earth. 

_Oh_ , she thinks, folding into a creaking wooden chair, strengthened by the fresh air. Lucas curls himself at her feet, his fur warm and shifting over her toes as he breathes, in and out. His face rests near her crossed ankles. 

“You shifted into the cat for me,” she says, all wonder. 

He blinks sleep-lidded eyes up at her and bumps his cold wet nose against the thin bone of her ankle. The animal form helps shift his human emotions into blacks and whites, eliminating the grey areas that catch and press so vividly at her senses. She hadn’t realized- but he had. 

“You can’t do that every time,” she says, rubbing a hand over her heart. “That’s avoidance of its own kind.”

Nipping at her skin, he gives her a piercing look. She isn’t fluent in the intricacies of cat yet, but she would bet her life he’s saying _we’ll talk about it later_. It’s infuriating and she lets him know that, a strong pulse of displeasure flitting along the bond. But he does nothing, merely shuts his eyes and sleeps, his breathing even and strong. She is left awake and still shaken, a tightness in her chest she can barely breathe through. 

At some point she falls asleep curled up in the chair, as safe outside as she would be inside. She wakes with the first streams of buttery morning light against her skin and closed eyes, alone on the porch. The smell of coffee drifts through the aerie, clinking sounds soft from the direction of the kitchen. With bare feet and legs, Sascha rises from the chair, muscles creaking, and slips back into the house. 

“You’re up,” Lucas says as she walks into the kitchen, glancing her over. “Quite the outfit, darling.”

She raises a brow. “I could say the same of you,” she retorts, taking in his low-slung jeans, his bare feet and chest. 

He smiles, the curve of it sharp and feral in the morning light. The cat is there, hovering close to the skin; she can see the echoes of it in his eyes. “Coffee?”

“What happened last night?” she asks, hopping onto a stool at the small wooden island as he slides a steaming mug of coffee over to her. 

Gaze darkening, he looks at her steadily, a veneer of practiced indifference lining his face. “I know you know what dreams are,” he says, a wicked undertone to his voice. 

She sips her coffee, glaring at him across the rim of her mug. Sometimes, she still can’t believe her powers were so affected by him as to bring him psychically into her dreams, and how. It brings a flush to her cheeks still, even after having the real thing in the flesh. “These weren’t good dreams,” she says pointedly. 

His hands rest palm-down on the flat counter, arms braced widely apart. “No, they weren’t. You know all my secrets, kitten,” he says quietly. 

A lump forms at the base of her throat. She can feel the anxiety and darkness rippling off of his skin, pressing on her raw senses. She hasn’t had the time this morning to patch her shields, to reset the filters she puts in place strictly to avoid feeling everything and _anything_ that comes her way. It’s constant spikes of emotions, _hatefearlustwantworry_ all just from Lucas. 

“Do they happen often?” she asks. _Baptized and formed in blood_. 

He shrugs. “I don’t keep track. They just – happen.”

“It made me physically ill, Lucas,” she says flatly, unable to dance around the issue any longer. 

Gaze shifting, he leans forward on his hands, all long lines of feline power and strength. “That’s why I shifted. It’s easier in animal form.”

“But you can’t do that every time – I want to help you with them,” she objects, fingers clenching tightly around her mug. Her knuckles are white even against the shiny eggshell-hued porcelain. 

He raps the side of his head with his knuckles, mouth tightly drawn. “The past is past, sweetheart. All I can do is live with it now.”

“ _We_ ,” she corrects, voice even. “ _We_ have to live with it.”

Lucas is too quiet, as if the hunters are in the sun-warmed room with them. She doesn’t breathe for a moment, palms damp. 

“All right,” is all he says, moving around the island. His hand cups the back of her neck, skin to skin. As frustrated and as wrung-out as she feels, she will never deny him the skin privileges he earned. She tips her head back into his touch, lets his mouth touch hers. The bond is achingly still between them. There are no words for how lost she feels in this moment. 

She tells him she is going to Mercy’s today while he is in the office. The sentinel is coming by to pick her up soon, as Sascha is still reluctant to venture out in the DarkRiver territories alone. She knows her way, but not well enough. By now, he is halfway out the door, dressed impeccably in his dark suit, a fine complement to his hair. 

“I’ll pick you up there, then,” he says, voice low. 

“Thank you,” she says, watching him from the doorway of the bathroom. Wisps of steam from her shower float into the hall around her ankles. The sleeves of his shirt slip over her hands. 

The corners of his mouth soften. Before she can blink, he is in front of her and pulling her up against his chest. His mouth drags over hers in a long wet kiss that shakes her to her core. Beneath the passion and possession, she can taste worry and want, a faint whisper of desperation. It all catches too hard at her heart. 

His hand strokes over her loose hair, his teeth sinking into her lip. “Yours,” he says against her lips, eyes forest-dark and narrow. 

She nods, because there was no greater truth for her now. She was unequivocally his. “Yours,” she murmurs. 

Hours later, she can still feel the heat of his mouth all the way into her bones. 

*

Mercy, on her rare day off, bustles around the front yard of her little cottage. Her hair catches all the sunlight, burnished red and sparks of gold as it sways from a high ponytail atop her head. Sascha sits on the front steps and watches her, lets her emotional state settles and even out. 

“I hope I am not intruding,” she says for the fourth time that afternoon. 

“Oh please. I like the company. Usually it would be Dorian hunkered down here with me, but that idiot is off sulking on a run into the city,” the female sentinel says with a wave of her hand, carrying a bushel of weeds away from the garden stretched out around the front porch. 

Sascha smiles slightly, a pang of hurt touching her deeply at Dorian’s name. “You’re very soothing for me,” she confesses. “It’s a pleasure to spend time with you, not only to become friendlier, but also because you help my empathetic abilities.”

Wiping a wrist across her damp brow, Mercy grins. “Sascha, we’re more than friends. We’re Pack,” she says, all simplicity and ease. It warms Sascha straight through. “And I’m glad I can help.”

“I’m glad at least one of you isn’t completely emotionally battered,” Sascha says, frustration seeping into her tone. “Or, well – at least not overwhelmingly so,” she amends, glancing at Mercy. 

The other woman smiles wryly, coming over to sit with Sascha on the front steps. “I worry about Pack, and Dorian,” she confesses, reaching out to take Sascha’s hand in both of hers. 

_Touch is comfort_ , Sascha thinks, the realization spreading through her as a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. _She is comforting me_.

“But me? I’m pretty good,” Mercy continues. “As good as a female dominant at the top of a hierarchy stuffed with stubborn idiot males can be.”

Sascha laughs, relaxed for the first time in days. “You do very well for yourself. A credit to the Pack.”

Stretching out her long legs, Mercy squeezes Sascha’s hand and releases her. She is calm, has been this entire afternoon, with only a few spikes of that fiery temper; once at the brush scattered around her yard, and three times at the phone, with Riley Kincaid on the line. Riley was a man who didn’t understand leisure time, Sascha could tell even from the briefest of interactions. 

“Have you ever been in love?” Sascha asks abruptly, thinking briefly on the strangest of sensations she had had when listening to Mercy and Riley speak. 

A hesitation, a slight waver in the calm sea that was Mercy; immediately Sascha blushes and covers her mouth. “I’m sorry – That was so forward – “

“Sascha, please,” Mercy says at last, laughing a little. Her voice is husky, comforting. “It’s a good question. It’s not too much.”

Peering past Mercy into the tall pines, the sunny day warm and verdant around them, Sascha rests her chin in her hands. “I ask only because I don’t – I don’t know how I am to recognize it,” she says carefully. This was one of Lucas’s sentinels, not only her friend and pack member; here, she had to tread cautiously. 

A strange thoughtful quiet settles between them. Sascha waits, lets Mercy parse out her thoughts. She tips her head back and shuts her eyes, smiling into the spotty sunlight. Trees arch above them, shading them with needles and wide leaves. 

“I think,” Mercy begins at last, thoughtful, “that the mating bond is a strange and wonderful thing. It is a security net if need be; but it can also be incredibly confusing.”

Relief floods Sascha in a rush, her fingertips tingling with it. “Yes.”

“I also think that if there wasn’t love in some way, the mating bond wouldn’t work as well as it does,” Mercy adds. 

Sascha looks at the other woman. A small smile plays on Mercy’s lips. “I think you just need to trust yourself a little more,” she finishes, rubbing at a streak of dirt on her cheek. 

The knot in Sascha’s stomach loosens just a little. She reaches out and touches Mercy’s cheek, a light brush of fingertips against warm damp skin. “I think you are probably right,” she says ruefully. “It’s just been such a strange few months.”

“You’re allowed to be human, Sascha. We all are in some way shape and form,” Mercy laughs. Sascha can feel the cat in her rising, ready to touch, to play. 

Later, a beer in Mercy’s hand and a glass of water in Sascha’s, they sit knee to knee on the front steps, watching the afternoon light deepen and shift amber and gold on the forest floor. “You need to talk to Lucas, too,” Mercy says, after Sascha shares bits and pieces of the weeks past, of the insecurity and the struggle to repair her shielding day after day. She doesn’t share the most personal pieces; Mercy may be a sentinel, but Sascha is Lucas’s mate, and she knows where the lines settle now. 

“I know,” Sascha sighs. “I don’t know how to do it without pissing him off.”

“Maybe he needs to get pissed off. When you two fight, you seem to get more out of it than just people bitching at each other,” Mercy says with a shrug. “He’s the one who’s going to anchor you, though. That’s what mates do.”

Impulsively, Sascha slides an arm around Mercy’s shoulders. The initiation of touch is still foreign to her instincts, but she is trying. “You’re a very good person to talk to, Mercy,” she says.

Laughing, Mercy pats Sascha’s knee. “Tell that to Kincaid.”

“Wolves are another problem altogether,” Sascha says, exasperated. “I’m trying to handle one pack at a time.”

“SnowDancer can’t get over you, though. When Kincaid doesn’t have a stick up his ass, he asks about you. None of them are ever going to forget what you did for Brenna,” Mercy says, taking a long swallow of her beer. The bottle glistens with condensation in the afternoon sunshine. 

Everything inside Sascha coils, protection from the memories of that day. She still feels remnants of Brenna’s pain and desolation, weeks after the initial breakthrough. Sometime next week, she will go and pay Brenna a visit, with hers and Hawke’s permission. “I only did what I could,” she says at last, voice soft. 

“It was amazing,” Mercy says quietly. “Riley is a steely wolf, and the once or twice he’s mentioned it, I swear he’s has a facial expression.”

Sascha tilts her head curiously. “Is working with him that hard?”

Suddenly Mercy seems uncomfortably, eyes skittish. “No,” she says at last. She’s tightly wound now, though still placid to Sascha’s gentle touch. But there’s a strange aberration in the pattern. 

Sascha smiles, and says nothing. Trust is a two-way street. 

*

Lucas is strangely silent that evening. He makes a simple dinner of sandwiches and salad, keeps a hand on her knee, her elbow as they eat. They talk about the progress on the Duncan-DarkRiver project, skirting around Nikita and her presence in the room. There is a strange heaviness between them, aching and uncomfortable. She wants to reach out and touch it, physicalize it; but there is nothing in it but air. 

Because she’s useless in the art of food preparation, she does the dishes as he showers, humming mindlessly to herself. She runs the water too hot into the sink, but lets the sensation wrap around her skin, the odd combination of pain and pleasure. Her thoughts turn to the complexity of emotion, the layers building upon themselves with each day and each interaction. Inside her mind, she reaches out for the Web; it is quiet tonight, the stars settled. Everyone is in for the night, or out on patrol. 

She feels him in the kitchen, but doesn’t move from the sink or shut off the water. Outside the skies are dark, small bits of starry night piercing their ways through the thick covering of leafy branches. 

Suddenly his chest is pressed to her back, his hands reaching in front of her. “You’ll burn yourself,” he murmurs, mouth near her temple. He shuts off the water. She shivers, his hands falling from the faucet to the curve of her waist. He is all bare damp skin and heat behind her. 

“It felt nice,” she says after a moment, letting herself lean back against him. 

He huffs against her skin, a sharp press of air and frustration. “Your fascination with sensation is going to get you in trouble.”

She smiles slightly, resting her hands over his as they lay over her middle. “It has already; look where I am,” she teases. 

Biting lightly at her jaw, he growls low in his throat. She feels the reverberation of it from his chest against her back. “You’re where you belong.” His voice is all fierceness and sincerity. 

Rubbing her fingertips over his wrists, his forearms, she sighs softly. “I know,” she says, and means it. She knows that as a certainty; it is the rest of it that still puzzles her. 

They stand together in comfortable silence for a moment before he shifts his mouth to her throat, kissing lightly. “The panther can suppress the nightmares,” he says after a long soft press of his lips to her skin. 

All the hair on the nape of her neck rises with his words. She feels the jarring impact of his words like a punch to the gut, the breath leaving her. 

“They don’t happen often,” he continues. “And they make little sense. I know they leave me with no control, no options, watching the ones I love die.”

 _No_ , she thinks, suddenly sick to her stomach. _They make perfect sense_. She had put him through nearly the same nightmare only weeks past. For a moment, she thinks her knees will buckle. 

“The panther helps chase them away. But I also know that I’m easier for you to handle in my animal form, at least right now,” he continues, lips at the jumping pulse in her neck. 

“Making it easier on me is not helpful in the long run,” she says at last, voice cracking just the slightest. It guts her to be this close and to be no comfort to him. She turns in the arc of his arms, leaning back against the counter to look up at him. His towel knots low on his hips, hair damp and tousled from the shower. “I have to learn, so that I can be a partner equal to you.”

His mouth twists, the scars on his face shifting with the movement. She reaches up and touches the warm lines, fingertips soft. “It is harder than I thought it would be,” she says, admitting a weakness she hadn’t wanted to; not to him. 

Lucas slides his broad hands up her back, fingers tugging on her braid. His gaze softens as he watches her. “If I wanted easy, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you,” he says, all simplicity and ease. 

Mouth falling open, she stares up at him. He laughs huskily, all savage beauty and gentle hands. “Have I not said it yet? Sorry, kitten.”

“You’re terrible,” she says, cupping her palms at his neck. “I did not – I didn’t need it.”

“No. But I wanted to tell you,” he says, stroking her hair. “I love you.”

There are tears sharp and salty behind her eyes, stinging the skin. Sascha can feel it, the overwhelming press of his affection and possession through the bond and in the air. The darkness from last night remains, but it is tempered. She inhales sharply and tries to settle, to keep her equilibrium. 

“Sascha, are you all right?” he asks, voice raw. 

“Yes,” she scrapes out of gritted teeth, the nausea familiar with too much emotional stimulation rising within her. “Lucas, I – “

He settles her against his chest, the rhythm of his breathing sinking into her skin. She matches her breaths to his, a slow and settled pattern. Her arms wrap around his shoulders as he strokes his hands up and down her spine, gentling her. The joy is there, bubbling up to the tip of her tongue. Oh, how she loves him in this moment. 

“Here I am, trying to help you, and I made it worse,” he says ruefully. 

She shakes her head, cheek pressed to the hollow of his shoulder. “No, not at all. It’s only a matter of appropriate shielding of my neural pathways,” she says thickly. Tears remain stuck in her throat. 

Chuckling, he kisses the side of her head. “I love when you talk Psy.”

“Stop it,” she mutters. 

“That sounded suspiciously like an order,” he drawls. 

The humor helps to lessen the emotional weight on her shoulders and mind. But it’s still a moment of upheaval; she presses her cheek against his skin and holds onto him, heart lodged in her throat. 

“How can I help you, darling?” he asks in a low murmur. 

_Skin_ , she thinks a little desperately. His voice is still too thick for words. _I need skin_. 

Abruptly he lifts her up into his arms, his towel loosening and falling from his hips with the movement. With her curled up to his chest, he carries her out of the kitchen and down the hall into their dusk-lit bedroom, orangey-purple light sweeping along the edges of the bed. He pours her into their neat-as-a-pin bed, his wide hands moving over the hem of her t-shirt, lifting. 

“Did you hear me?” she asks, faintly startled. 

Lucas grins too sharply, the savageness of his features muted in the dusk. “No, but I know what you want.”

“That’s very forward of you,” she says primly, even as relief slides its way through every pore of her skin. He bares her skin to the evening air, the lingering remnants of the day’s heat. 

“Forward is the only way I go,” he says with a smirk, his fingers flicking at the button of her jeans. They’re off in one easy lift of her hips and a slide of denim over her legs. Then he settles himself over her, skin to skin. His elbows take the majority of his weight, bracketing her. She shifts and arches against him, the cotton of her underwear ultra-soft against her sensitive skin. There’s a strange hyper-awareness to her tonight, as if the force of his emotional confession has aggravated all of her senses. 

Raising her hands, she strokes her fingers through his hair, down the taut line of his neck. “Did you like me before the bond?” she asks as he watches her, his eyes heavy with cat. 

His mouth turns, lines deepening at the corners. “That’s a damn dumb question,” he mutters, leaning into kiss and nip at her jaw. 

“It is not,” she retorts, breath catching in her throat. 

His hips settle against hers, her thighs soft as they curve around his waist. Her feet press flat into the mattress as her knees rise. “It is, because I liked you from the first. And you know that.”

One of his hands brushes the hair from her eyes, skim light fingers over her cheek, her jaw. “I knew I wanted you, and then I knew I admired you. And then I loved you. I knew you were mine,” he says simply, his voice a low rumble in his throat. 

“I can’t examine that many layers at once,” she murmurs, tilting her cheek into his touch. The complexities of want versus need versus affection – it weighs on her. 

Lucas shrugs, leaning into kiss the thin skin of her throat. “Not yet. It’s still new, kitten. It’s new to me too,” he says, voice darkening. 

She thinks of the lonely nature of the alpha in any pack; there is responsibility for the welfare of many, with no one truly to lookout for them in turn. Here, he was honed in fire and the blood of his parents, an alpha at twenty-three, a leader and a soldier long before. That he instinctively protects her from himself is natural; it will take time for there to be nothing but open trust. It will happen, she thinks as she stretches against him, his skin a warm brand upon hers. It will happen.

His erection presses against her thigh, hot and hard, and she laughs. Her thigh shifts against him, friction that makes him hiss into her throat. A smile slides over her lips and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. Fingernails dig into the corded muscles of his back and she arches, rubbing up against him; she is desperate for skin, for friction. 

Teeth sink into her neck, the bite soothed by the warm wet of his tongue. “You’ve got more cat in you than you think,” he teases gruffly. 

A laugh pushes through her chest, pealing in the thick evening air as he slides down her body. His mouth follows the curve of her breast, the rise and fall of her belly. She shivers with anticipation, her veins nearly molten under her skin. Her fingers card through his thick dark hair, silky and still damp to her touch. There are whispers from him to her against her bare skin, soft touches of his mouth on her inner thighs. When he finally slides her panties away from dark curls and takes her, his tongue gentle and wet, she shuts her eyes and holds on. The nausea and overwhelming force of emotion slips away, replaced by sheer sensation and pleasure. There is love in his every murmur, the touch of his fingertips to her clit, the spread of her thighs. 

When she next opens her eyes, skin sweat-damp and nerves alight with pleasure, he is above her. His gaze is too-bright, the heat rolling off his skin in waves against hers. “Sascha,” he growls, his mouth wet and shining in the rising moonlight. 

She hooks a thigh over his hip and pulls him close and in, her mouth opening over his. The taste of her lingers on his tongue and she bites at his bottom lip, feeling the press and scratch of the panther under his skin. Her hand drags down his chest and stomach to his hips, taking his erection in hand. His whole body jerks into the touch, a low stream of curses rumbling against her mouth. 

“Yes,” she says against his mouth, spreading her thighs wide for him. She knows what he needs, can feel the want of possession in the very air between them. “Lucas – “

And he takes her, a low moan of a snarl at her lips, his hands lost and grasping at her waist. She watches him with open, hazy eyes, as he gives her everything he has to give. 

*

Later, she dozes on her stomach, the night breeze seeping in from the open windows. It’s cool against the bare slope of her back. 

“You’re spending a lot of time with Mercy and Tammy,” he says, propped up against the headboard next to her. His fingers unweave the long braid of her hair with infinite care. 

“They’re very stable,” she replies, opening her eyes to look at him. The pillow is cool against her cheek. 

“And I’m not?” he teases. “Darling, that hurts.”

She swats at his thigh, ears open to the full, rich sounds of the forest at night. “I need them,” she says quietly. “Right now, they’re the only ones I can spend an entire day with and not feel as if all my shielding will collapse.”

Mouth drawn tightly, he tangles his fingers in the loose waves of her hair as they skim over her back. “And me.”

Closing her eyes, she says nothing. His hand stills itself, settles on her back. “Sascha?”

“And you,” she says at last, shifting closer to him on the bed. The moment she confesses her struggles with his emotions, he will shut down; then, she will be effective in no way shape or form. No, her filter with him is her own burden, one she will navigate in time. 

A low sound of dissatisfaction rumbles out of his throat. But he lays down and pulls her close, her back pressed to his chest. His hands push the wavy mass of her hair to the side, his mouth alighting on the nape of her neck. “You’re hiding something,” he grumbles. 

“You’d be the first to know,” she counters, safe in the circle of his arms. 

One of his hand trails over her ribs, cupping the smooth curve of her breast. “Don’t try and trick a cat.”

She arches into his touch, letting sleep lull her into a soft, boneless state. “I would never.”

He licks her neck, a simple caress. In moments, she is asleep, warm and comfortable. Safe. 

*

Lucas’s phone wakes them early the next morning. Groaning, he unfurls himself from around her, shifting to the side of the bed. Sascha shivers and reaches for her discarded shirt, listening half-heartedly to the gruff conversation. 

“What is it?” she asks as he disconnects from the call, sliding the shirt over her head. 

“Dorian wants to bring some of the juveniles to you. They’re acting out more than usual,” Lucas says. She can feel his displeasure settling over him like a second skin. “Says it’s not a discipline issue.”

Wetting her lips, she shakes out her hair. “He should. That’s why I’m here,” she says, pushing her nervousness under the skin, no tremble to her voice. She has met with all the juveniles, as well as the senior soldiers and the maternals; but all the meetings were spaced out over days, to give her enough time to recover from the emotional upheaval of that many souls. She has never tried to utilize her abilities on them, though; this will be a good test. 

Lucas pushes his hair out of his eyes, glowering with bright eyes. “I should stay.”

“That would be decidedly unhelpful in many ways,” she retorts. “If you don’t let me meet with the Pack on my own, they will think I’m weak. Plus, you tend to overwhelm me.”

His grin is too clever, too wicked. She rolls her eyes and rises from the bed. “And, you have a meeting with Hawke, Riley, and Mercy in the city.”

“I’ll cancel.”

“Now you’re trying to rile me up,” she says sharply. “I’ll be fine. I will call Tammy, and she’ll come over with them.”

She leaves him scowling as she pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower. A new day and a full night of sleep have left her rejuvenated, her shielding flawless. It is a good day to stretch her abilities, to test herself. 

An hour later, Lucas has left her with a kiss and a schoolmarm-ish reminder to take it easy. Tammy drives up not moments later, a plate of baked goods in her arms. 

“You’re going to fatten me up,” Sascha says with a laugh as Tammy enters the aerie.

“No such thing. You’re all skin and bones as is,” the healer clucks, hair pulled back into a messy knot of curls. She sets the plate down on the kitchen counter and plants her hands on her hips, staring at Sascha. “You look tired.”

“I feel very good,” Sascha says, startled. 

“Is it Lucas?” 

Sascha is about to open her mouth when she feels the pinpricks of Dorian’s presence nearby, the wild emotional charge of the juveniles. “Oh god,” she breathes out. 

“You’re going to be just fine,” Tammy says firmly, her hand on Sascha’s elbow. “Let’s go outside. A cleaner space for you. Besides, Lucas will go nuts with all the scents in here with yours, even if they’re Pack.”

When they descend into the open clearing, Dorian is already waiting, three sullen teenagers Sascha remembers just in passing standing behind him. His hair glints like gold in the warm sunlight. She reaches out just for a moment, feels the pricks of sadness and anger still enveloped in the deepest parts of him. But it’s better, she thinks, smiling at him. He is better, and so is the Pack in turn. 

“Hi,” she says, glancing at the teens. 

Dorian smiles slightly, reaching out to graze his knuckles against her cheek. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Sure,” she says, not feeling particularly sure at all. 

Tammy and Dorian stay at a distance, close enough to intervene if need be. Sascha looks at the juveniles, at a loss. 

“Do you guys want to sit?” she asks after a moment, the discomfort rippling from them. 

“Not really,” the tallest of them says, voice sharp. With those two words, the strangest sensation fills her; fear, abandonment. _Foster cubs_ , she thinks as she watches them. Around them, the forest silences itself, as if it feels the presence of wild predatory instincts. 

“Okay,” she says at last, dropping to a comfortable seat on the forest floor. The scent of dirt and pine fills her nose, soft under her fingertips. “I hope you don’t mind if I do. I’m still trying to learn the ways of Pack.”

 _And so are they_ , she thinks as the three boys exchange looks. 

Finally, the shortest, stocky boy with bright red hair takes a seat opposite her. He can’t be older than fifteen, she thinks, wishing she could place his name. 

“Do you like Pack?” he asks.

She smiles. Warmth rises from behind her, from Tammy and Dorian, enveloping her. “I do. It’s home.”

“How did you know?” the tall one asks, sitting as well. His brown hair shines tawny in the sunlight, dark eyes wide. 

“It was hard,” she says, because the truth is what they deserve. “It still is hard. Sometimes, I think I don’t fit in very well.”

The third of the boys sits at last, the four of them close together in a tight circle in the pine-strewn dirt. As she speaks, as she listens to them speak in turn, she begins to reach out and pluck through the threads of their frustration. She goes gently, but with more force than she used with Brenna. The pain is different, but the roots follow similar patterns. In all, she spends three hours sitting in the tree-dappled sunlight with them, the light shifting as hours passed. By the end, the three boys are lighter around the mouth, less sullen; she is exhausted, stretched taut, but thrilled. 

Dorian hustles them into the waiting car, a hulk of a sport-utility vehicle, and then turns back to Sascha. “So?”

Sascha breathes, Tammy a reassuring presence at her side. “It seems that the events of the last months have intensified the Pack’s need for belonging. The few foster cubs are getting lost in it, especially since Lucas hasn’t been around quite as much,” she says, a pang of guilt settling in her middle. “They don’t feel as a part of the Pack as they want to.”

Scowling, Dorian grasps her hand in his. “Figured something like that would happen. I’ll talk to the other sentinels, and Lucas.” He leans down and kisses her cheek. “You were great.”

She wraps a small hand around his wrist. “You seem better.”

His gaze darkens, shocks of blond hair falling over his brow. “It never fully goes away.”

“No,” she says, thinking of Lucas. “No, it doesn’t. But we live with it.”

Dorian pats her hand before releasing her and driving off with the juveniles. Sascha lets out a long slow breath, her fingers trembling. “That was okay, yes?”

Tammy kisses her cheek, turning her towards the aerie. “More than okay. How do you feel?”

“A little shaky,” Sascha murmurs. “Teenagers have a lot of emotions to sort out, don’t they?”

“And you didn’t at that age?” Tammy teases, her hand firm and warm on Sascha’s elbow. 

_No, I didn’t_ , Sascha thinks but says nothing. She lets Tammy make her a late lunch, and they sit and chat until the healer has to go pick up Julian and Roman. Sascha promises to bring Lucas to dinner tomorrow night, and tries not to read into the secret glitter in the healer’s gaze. 

The juveniles have exhausted her; she curls up in the living room, in the armchair she has claimed as her own. There is the faint imprint of nausea, a sign of overextension. She shuts her eyes and breathes through it, rebuilding and reinforcing. 

A touch against her cheek wakes her, the taste of sleep heavy on her tongue. She opens her eyes to find evening has fallen, the aerie sunk in navy-blue dusk. Lucas kneels by her, eyes bright in the dim light. 

“Hi,” she murmurs, tongue thick in her mouth. 

He smiles, strokes a hand over her hair. “Sorry I’m late. I stopped to talk to the sentinels,” he says, tugging on her braid. 

Sitting up, she stretches the crick in her neck, the small of her back. “Did Dorian – “

“Yes,” he says, the smile falling away from his face. “I hadn’t realized the stresses were so severe on the younger members. We’re planning a team-building retreat for the next few weeks, once everything settles down.”

What he doesn’t say: once I can leave you. He doesn’t have to; she knows how much pressure she’s been placing on him, purposefully or not. It would have been much easier to mate with a fellow changeling, or even a human, she thinks sadly as he rises and pulls her to her feet. 

“Dorian said you were wonderful today,” he says, nuzzling her throat. 

She relaxes into his touch, leaning against his chest. “It was… good,” she says at last, thinking of the young boys nearly men, of their fears and hopes. 

“Good,” he murmurs, teeth nipping at her skin.

His pleasure at her success is palpable in the air, through the bond. Slowly, she’s making a place for herself at his side. Hands settle at her waist and haul her up against his chest. His mouth covers hers as her thighs wrap around his hips, her hands scrabbling for purchase across his back. All heat and taut skin against her, she moans against his lips as he walks her back, pressing her against the wall of the living room. She rakes her nails down his clothed back, smiling at his mouth as his back arches with the touch. 

“Spitfire tonight,” he says, eyes narrowed into cat-like slits. 

She rocks her hips against his, aching for friction, for bare skin to bare skin. “You’ve been holding back,” she says, voice husky. 

He looks at her, startled. His weight, delicious and heavy, pins her to the cool wood behind. “I don’t want you to anymore,” she says before she slides her hands over his ass and to the front, to pluck at the buckle of his belt. 

She can taste his longing, the animal desire for fast and furious. Here she is, pinned – she wants him to take her, to fist his hand in her hair and take the breath right from her lungs. Every day and night she feels it, the restraint, the china-like delicacy. Perhaps not in words – they have been as fierce as always with each other in that respect. But physically he is keeping himself apart, separating the animal from the man and the needs of both. 

“Yes,” she says quietly, pushing down his suit trousers and reaching for naked hot skin, hard under her fingertips. 

The mating bond shudders with his every inhale. Today she is strong, today she is shielded and true; it is a good day, and she wants to breathe it into him. She strokes him, bites at his jaw, feels more than sees the tension in his arms, the tightly-knotted reins slowly coming undone within him. “Lucas,” she murmurs, teeth biting down at the throbbing pulse in his neck. 

That breaks him. He hauls her hands out of his open trousers and pins her wrists to the wall above her head. Her gaze flickers to his; he is all cat now, green and sharp. There is the hunter in his face, sharp lines taut with want. 

“You’re a tease, kitten,” he all but purrs. The sound crests over her skin; goosebumps rise in its wake. One broad callused hand keeps her wrists pinned as the other moves roughly over her body, cupping her breasts through her thin t-shirt. Her nipples tighten and rise with the caress, her body arching into his. 

“By necessity,” she gasps out, his tongue licking at the hollows of her throat. 

A soft sound, and then claws out; her shirt falls away from her front, pinned between her back and the wall. “You tear up a lot of my clothes,” she says, heart jumping. 

He grins wickedly and lowers his mouth, biting at the curve of her breast uncovered by the cup of her bra. “We have an account in the city. I’ll get you more.”

Sensation overwhelms her and she settles back into it, the comfort of his grip and the reassurance of his love. He inches up her anticipation with every kiss, every rock of his hips against hers, and soon he is buried inside of her, pressing her too hard into the wall. The breath shudders out of her body and she arches into the grip on her thigh, the fullness of him everywhere. His mouth covers hers as he whispers her name over and over, skin to skin. It is rough and scrapes her raw, but she tips her head back and breathes, just breathes him in. 

“You know me through and through,” he says later, curled up around her in their bed. 

She smiles sleepily, stroking her fingers through his thick hair. “I’d hope so,” she murmurs, the bond a lazy pulse of warmth between them. 

Stretching against her, he is all contentment. Tonight is an easy night, today a good day; it will not always be so. She takes it as it comes. 

*

When Lucas and Sascha pull up to Tammy’s house the next evening for dinner, there are a few cars already outside, the house flooded with light. Sascha frowns as she steps out of the car, taking Lucas’s waiting hand.

“I feel a lot of people in there,” she says, suspicious. 

Lucas laces their fingers together and shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Tammy doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Liar,” she retorts, leaning into him as they walk. 

“It’s just dinner,” he laughs as they ascend the steps. “What’s suspicious about that?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You are not the great liar you think you are.”

“I never said I was,” he says with a grin almost wolfish, knocking on the door. 

“Come on in!” Tammy hollers from inside. 

When they step inside, Sascha is assaulted by color and light, the sounds of many calling _Happy Birthday_ to her in varied tones. The emotional energies flood over her, no warning or filter; she all but staggers back under the weight of them all. It is the sentinels, a few of the senior soldiers – including Rina, who is still frosty and cold to the psychic touch – and Roman and Julian in cub form, loping around her ankles. 

Lucas has a strong hold on her; she breathes deeply, trying to keep her connection to him clean and bright. “You okay, kitten?”

“Fine,” she says, pushing her lips into a smile. And she is, really; but her shields are buckling under the weight of so many at once. 

Mercy is the first to reach her, worry clear in her sharp even gaze. “Surprise?” she says, taking her from Lucas’s grasp and bringing her further into the house. “Here, let’s get a drink!”

“I don’t – “

Mercy tugs her into the dining room, where the table is full of food, the bar set up with alcohol, water, and juice. It is just the two of them in the room; the sounds of the gathering press on Sascha’s ears. “You looked about ready to pass out,” she says, handing Sascha a glass of water. 

Sascha takes the drink gratefully, sipping carefully. “I wish he would have just told me,” she says, voice a little raw. “I would have been prepared.”

Sighing, Mercy pushes her hair off her shoulders. The eggshell-white blouse sets off her freckles and hair perfectly. “Tammy got it into her head that you wouldn’t come if you knew what it was. I told her that was ridiculous, but hey, it’s her party.”

“Hmmm,” Sascha murmurs, shutting her eyes for a moment. “Rina is not happy to be here.”

Swearing under her breath, Mercy grabs a beer and opens it with her bare hand. “Jesus H. Christ, is there anything you don’t sense?”

“That would be a fault in my mechanics,” Sascha says with a wry smile. “It’s quite alright. Are there any other surprises?”

Mercy shrugs. “Cake?”

Exhaling loudly, Sascha takes the sentinel’s elbow. “Let’s go back out, then.”

They rejoin the group at large, all of them approaching Sascha to wish her twenty-five years’ worth of birthdays. She moves from group to group, trying to catalog the experience of celebration, of such a determined focus on one person, all the while struggle to keep her shields intact. Dorian and his kiss on her cheek in greeting nearly buckles her knees, but it is Clay who sends the darkest of shards into her psyche. There is pain here in these small domestic moments for him; she may never understand why. But when he brings her a plate piled high with crackers, veggies and cheese, she touches the dark skin of his wrist and smiles in thanks. 

The younger soldiers are uneasy with her, except for Kit; when Vaughn guides her over to them, Kit takes her hand in his and squeezes, a smile still young and bright. The others nod, but Rina is a sharp chill of energy against her own. It’s unsurprising, considering; Sascha can’t fathom how the others don’t sense it as well. It’s bound up in embarrassment, betrayal, unrequited emotion; the furor of it nearly knocks Sascha to the ground. 

“You look a little tired,” Vaughn says near her ear as they walk towards the kitchen. Lucas remains on the other side of the living room with Mercy and Dorian, his eyes following her constantly. 

“I’m fine,” she says automatically, smiling at the sharp-eyed jaguar. “I think I’ll step outside for a moment.”

It takes two tries to make it out to the front porch alone, but she manages. The dual processes of keeping Lucas from the extent of her struggle and processing the wide variety of emotions in the contained space is exhausting. She holds out her hands as she sits on the front steps, watching the shake of her fingers in the dark evening air. 

There is so much love in the house; but under those layers, she feels every inch of the distress, the resentment, the bitterness. Nausea rises within her. She presses her palms flat to her stomach, the taste of bile in the back of her throat. The wood of the railing is cool as she leans her cheek against it, shutting her eyes. 

Behind her, the door opens. Yellow light spills from the doorway, edging her place on the stairs. “Sascha?”

Tammy. Swallowing hard, Sascha rises and turns, smiling brightly. “This is so lovely of you,” she says, reaching out to take Tammy’s hands. 

The healer looks at her carefully, mouth set in uncertain lines. “I know it was a shock, but I thought – “

“It’s wonderful,” Sascha asserts, clamping down on the urge to run, to be alone in dark corners with no one to feel but herself. “Thank you so much.”

Smiling slightly, Tammy squeezes her hands. “You’re Pack. Now, time for presents!”

“Presents?” Sascha repeats as she’s brought back inside, into the fold of the group. She catches Lucas’s eye from across the room, feels the pulse of concern from his side of the bond. Smile holding, she sits with ease, bracketed by Mercy and Nathan. She will not break, not with Pack. 

The present-giving tradition is of interest to her, as something she will most likely have to perform herself. Tammy and Nathan give her a basic cookbook, which makes Lucas laugh right out loud. As the gifts continue, the tension in the room thickens. Sascha can’t help but watch the younger soldiers, the way they stare at her, as if she is still an outlier and not the alpha’s mate. Lucas’s hackles are up; she feels it like second nature, a gut reaction. 

The gifts distract them all: Vaughn gives her a small carved panther, smooth and polished and lovely; Dorian and Mercy combine gifts, a set of thin bracelets, silver and jade. Clay gives her a minute smooth stone, obsidian; a worry stone, he says in that quiet deep voice. All of it is touching, the affection and care in the room pressing on her weakening shields. But the care put into the gifts touch her heart, and she cannot force herself to walk away, to take a moment to herself. 

It is the gift from Julian and Roman, though, that pushes her too far. 

Tammy hands her the crudely-wrapped package, as everyone begins to talk amongst themselves. Some rise to refill their drinks, grab another slice of the rich chocolate-coconut cake of Tammy’s creation. “They made it themselves, just for you,” she says, glancing with a mother’s pride at the dozing cubs on the loveseat near the window. 

“Ah,” Sascha says, voice light and thin. Her slim fingers pluck carefully at the wrapping paper, methodical and precise. What unveils itself in her lap is so full of affection and innocent love that it takes her aback. 

“That’s adorable,” Mercy exclaims, shaking her head. “Those cubs of yours are already heartbreakers.”

Sascha touches the hardened clay, the pawprints imprinted there. The grooves are shallow, but there; the boys scratched their names under their respective names, and then a message: _Happy Birthday Sascha_ , in clean handwriting that could only have come from an adult. Their paws have left some sort of emotional remain, the skin contact just enough for her to feel; it is the innocence of a child’s love, something she could not even fathom months ago. 

It is just enough to break her, in the midst of everything. 

*

What Sascha remembers is fragmented, unclear. She remembers the breakdown of her shields, the complete and utter onslaught of the emotions in the room. _Joypainhurtcarewhypresssharpvengencelosslove_ \- it fills her to the brim. Lucas feels it too, the first time she has been so irrevocably caught by her abilities that she cannot keep her balance with him, the bond quaking between them. The shock of it has him reeling psychically, a tremor she feels above everything else. 

“Sascha – “

Her vision goes black as tears well up behind her eyes. Her grip loosens. She feels strong hands on her arms, keeping her upright. There is the insane spike of worry and hurt from Lucas, adding to the sharp dissonance of emotion within her. 

Then, she passes out into blackness, free of sensation. 

*

Sascha wakes to angry voices pitched low in an effort not to disturb. No matter; the anger and frustration in the room is like a group of bees in her skull, her chest. 

“What the _hell_ \- “

“Lucas Hunter, don’t you start - “ Tammy. 

“She _passed_ out. At a _party_.”

“A party full of people! Of course it was going to be a stressor for her, but she’s been so good about letting people _know_ – I thought – “

“I’m fine,” Sascha croaks out, opening her eyes. She curls her hands around the blankets, blinking to clear her vision. 

At the end of the bed in Tammy’s guest room, both alpha and healer stare at her. Lucas is angrier, and Tammy is equally frustrated – but with herself, not Sascha. Groaning, Sascha inches herself up to sit. A pale yellow light touches the corners of the room from the lamp in the corner, but one glance outside tells her it’s still night. 

Lucas crosses his arms over his chest as Tammy comes to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with worry. “I’m so sorry – “

Sascha curls her hands on the blanket in an effort to stop reaching for Tammy’s hands. Skin to skin contact could be too much for her to handle in this moment. “It’s fine. I just didn’t gage the control I had well enough. It wasn’t your fault,” she says soothingly. 

“I should have known – “

“No, no,” Sascha interrupts, ignoring Lucas’s glower from across the room. Her voice is reedy and thin in the air. “I did not pay attention to myself, and that’s on me.”

Tammy reaches out and touches Sascha’s cheek. It’s warm, soothing. “I wanted to do something nice for your birthday,” she says gently. 

“You did,” Sascha murmurs, covering Tammy’s wrist with her light fingers. “You really did.”

Tammy checks her over one more time, and when satisfied, leaves the room. It’s just Lucas there with her now. The tension floods off of him in heavy waves, shuddering in the air between them. Sascha pushes the blankets off of her and swings her legs over the side of the bed. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, voice a deadly still calm. 

“Nowhere,” she says, shooting him a look. “Obviously.”

He pushes off the wall and stalks towards her, dropping to his knees in front of her. “I thought – damnit, Sascha, I thought – “

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, cupping her palms to the sharp line of his jaw. She can feel his anxiety, the stress of watching and waiting. When she passed out she could feel the briefest of silences in their bond; the fear of it reflects in his gaze still. Her thumbs slide over the hollows of his cheeks. 

Gripping her waist tightly, he leans into kiss her. There is nothing gentle or patient about the curve of his lip and the grazing of his teeth against her skin; this is a mark of possession, of protest. Right here he says to the world that she is his and not to be touched, even by the abilities that have set her free. It is an impossible request; but he does not know the meaning of the word. 

The skin to skin contact is a rush to her battered senses. She parts her lips, breathing shallow, as his mouth settles at her throat. 

“It felt like you had died again,” he says, teeth grazing the thin skin above her pulse. His voice rubs her raw. 

Blood flutters in her veins, close to the skin. She threads her fingers through his hair and breathes with him. The animal is clawing under his skin; she feels it in every shift of his mouth, his grip. 

“The sentinels are still here,” she says after a moment, testing the boundaries of her strength. She can feel the sentinels in Tammy’s house, restless and impatient. 

“They wouldn’t leave,” he says, his forehead pressed to her neck. 

_Of course not_ , she thinks. Not when there was even the slightest chance of danger for the alpha or his mate. The sense of security soothes her jagged edges. The remnants of his anger and frustration linger inside her; words unspoken weigh on their tongues. 

“Lucas,” she murmurs, her palm curved over the nape of his neck. “Take me home.”

*

Sascha is half-asleep, Lucas curved possessively around her, when he speaks. 

“You’ve been hiding from me, kitten.” His voice is a low rumble in the darkness of their room. The aerie is still and silent, enveloping her in comfortable night. 

She shifts back against him, tilting her neck. His chin is at her shoulder, his hand on her hip. Skin, Tammy had said over and over as he hustled her out of the healer’s home, worry etched on every fine line of her lovely face. Skin-to-skin contact will help rebalance Sascha’s wary barriers. So, as soon as they entered the aerie, he all but poured her into bed and helped her undress, all warm bare male skin against her night-cool limbs. Everything in her wishes for sleep and silence; she resists the pull. 

“I did not want to worry you,” she says at last.

The huff of air against her skin is decidedly unimpressed. “I can feel the strain. You’re a terrible liar, too.”

“I wasn’t trying to lie to you,” she protests, turning to lie flat on her back. She glares up at him, body heavy with exhaustion. “I just – I do not know how this progresses. So I have been trying to slowly build up my strength, slowly testing myself. I needed you to be as normal as possible – I still do.”

He watches her as she speaks, propping his head on his hand, his elbow sinking into the bed. His eyes are all-but-glowing in the darkness, narrow and sharp. She shivers at the slide of his hand over her belly, claiming her. 

“I will never be the mate you need me to be until I learn how to control this – this empathy,” she says after a moment. “And the first step is you.”

Mouth curving downwards, he looks away from her briefly, his gaze outside into the thick trees surrounding them. She moves her hand over his abdomen, his chest; petting is still a strange concept to her, but she tries. She will always try. 

“I’m terrified of breaking you,” he says finally, voice just a rumble. 

The movement of her hand stops, the palm of her hand resting near his heart. “I think you know me better than that,” she says mutinously, gaze narrowing. “And if you don’t – “

“I do,” he says, cutting her off. “But the protective instinct is impossible to ignore. You know that.”

Wrinkling her nose, she digs her nails into his skin, eliciting a sharp hiss. “We are quite the pair.”

He smiles slightly, all affection. “You’re already the mate I need you to be,” he says with infrequent softness, leaning into kiss her. “When you need help, you tell me.”

It isn’t a request, but nor is it an order; instead, it is the understanding from one mate to another. She reaches up to touch his cheek and feels the ragged scars of his youth under her soft skin. “Yes. You too,” she says, eyes fixed on his. 

In response, he leans down to kiss her again, more fiercely this time. His mouth opens against hers, with the slight bite of teeth against her bottom lip. She arches into the circle of his arms, curls close to his warm skin. Her hands slide over his shoulders and back as he settles next to her, his hand cupping her cheek. 

“You need to rest,” he says against her lips. 

“I know,” she says, weariness seeping into her bones. “I am just so – I was doing so well,” she frets, tucking herself into the warmth of his side. 

He strokes a hand over her braid, clever fingers already working to unravel the thick strands from each other. “You still are. You’re doing this without a teacher, you know. Charting your own path.”

“It sounds acceptable when you say it that way,” she mumbles. 

His laugh is full and comforting. His thigh presses between hers. “That’s because it _is_ , darling.”

She shuts her eyes and sighs. The feel of his hand on her back lulls her back into near-sleep. “I know where I belong,” she says, almost too soft to be heard over the night sounds enveloping them, the rustle of trees in the breeze. “I just want to feel it.”

Mouth brushing the top of her head, he continues the slow up and down passes of his hand over her spine, her hair. “You will.”

Sleep claims her soon after, the bond steady between them. 

*

Early the next week, Hawke calls to wish her a happy birthday (which makes Lucas snarl from the other side of the room), and asks Sascha to come see Brenna. 

Without hesitation, she says yes. 

“Are you sure?” Mercy says as she drives Sascha down to the SnowDancer den. Lucas glowers uncomfortably in the front seat, as Sascha watches the terrain pass from the backseat of the jeep. 

“I already asked her that,” Lucas mutters. 

“Yes, you did,” Sascha says primly. She wears a mark on her throat as a compromise; he likes to see her claimed when in the territories of others. It’s a primal instinct she still struggles with, but today he has a free pass. “And yes, I’m sure.”

Lucas turns around in his seat, eyes sharp in his tan face. “If you feel strange at any point, you tell me,” he makes her promise for the fifth time since this morning. 

“I will,” she says, smiling in reassurance. Truthfully, she is terrified of collapse; she has barely recovered her shielding to full strength since the party at Tammy’s. But Brenna is a priority, and Brenna deserves to heal. If she can help, she will. 

Mercy catches her gaze in the rearview mirror and grins. Sascha reaches out to put her hand on Lucas’s shoulder. With a low grunt, he covers her hand with his. The touch settles her. 

“Don’t cat-out,” she teases.

“Watch it, kitten,” he mutters.

Smiling, Sascha lets her hand drop from his shoulder and sits back. Ahead, the boundary into SnowDancer beckons, and she is as ready as she will ever be.

*


End file.
